


i. the sacrifice

by temporalDecay



Series: the siren's song [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magic, Monster!Eridan, Siren!Eridan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a boy sets out to die, and instead turns the world around on its head by doing nothing more than being unapologetically himself.</p><p>Homestuck fantasy AU, featuring Karkat Vantas as the unintended savior of all trollkind, and Eridan Ampora as the unwilling, monstrous servant of an Empress - but not <em>the</em> Empress he had meant to serve. Includes curses, magic, folklore songs and Feferi Peixes's unshakable determination to set things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i. the sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quietserval](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietserval/gifts), [Lizardlicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/gifts).



> For Quietserval, who asked for a siren!Eridan AU that spanwed this monstrosity. And for Lizardlicks, who went ahead and then fed me delicious art for it.

You break the surface of the water at midnight, precisely. Up in the sky, the moons shine brightly, full and round and terrible, like mismatched eyes witnessing the ceremony. Lanterns dot the shore as you approach the pier, scales gleaming iridiscent under their soft glow. There are many more trolls present, this time, than last time. Absently, you think your Mistress will cull them down again soon, like she always does when they grow too numerous or become bold enough to stop fearing the shadows that ripple across the water's surface. 

Their King looks down at you with disdain, as you raise from the surf enough to face him, eye to eye. He is an old, withered beast of a purpleblood, bones braided into his hair and painted on his skin as he looms over his subjects. But he steps back, eventually, revealing the sacrifice standing perfectly still behind him. 

It is all as it should be, the clothes and the rituals and the prayers. You scrutinize every detail with a keen eye, before nodding slowly and then bowing, not to them, but to what they represent, and summoning the boat as your part of the bargain. The ship is small, barely big enough to house the sacrifice during their voyage, but delicately ornate. Swirls that emulate the waves are carved on wood the likes of which do not exist on land and haven't for many, many centuries now. 

The first night, the boy – he might be an adult, among his people, but he will never be anything other than a boy, to you - looks at you with wide, frightful eyes filled in scarlet, not rust, and you know the land folk have truly become desperate, to send hallowed blood to your Empress and beg for mercy you know she will not offer. 

“My name is,” he begins, voice steeled as best as he can, but he still trembles as he boards the ornate boat that will carry him off into Death, his hand small against yours, as you help him along. 

“I honestly don’t care,” you snap, interrupting him, instead of telling him that names are sacred, powerful vows, and all enchantments are built upon knowing someone’s. “Just sit down,” you add, in a grudgingly softer voice, when he glares at you with indignation, “and be quiet. I’m just the Ferryman.” 

He stares and looks like he might say some more, but instead, surprisingly, he settles down on the single bench aboard, taking care to rest all the ruffles and twist of the elaborate gown they’ve dressed him up. You wait until you’re sure he’s properly secured, and then grab onto the thick, iron-covered-in-gold rings that hang at the end of the chains at either side of the boat, and put an arm through each. Your back is wide, covered in scars that made your scale coat lopsided, here and there, and your muscles coil like ropes beneath your skin as you tilt forward and begin to swim and tow the little boat out towards the horizon. The boy makes a sound, at the sight, as the sound of a thousand bells echoes on the shore, the trolls gathered there wishing him farewell and good fortune on his mission. 

Several lifetimes ago, you would have preened about the attention. Several lifetimes ago, you were not the Empress' Ferryman and you did not know what it meant to be afraid of failure. Your back carries the weight of the boat and your tail hits the water with enough strenght to propel you forward, always forward, never backwards, and you tell yourself it doesn't matter anyway. 

He'll be dead long before he can do anything other than look, after all. 

  


* * *

  


On the second night, he tries to ask you why the sun did not burn through his skin and leave him bare bones the day before. He knows, after all, what awaits him in at the end of his journey, but you're surprised by how little he understands what it entitles. 

“The Empress will not let you die,” you say, in a solemn voice, almost a curse as it carries over the surf to reach his ears, “until it pleases her most to see you die.” 

“Oh,” he replies, and you feel the first twinge of pity for him, because his people live secure in a magicless land where there is law, set in stone, like gravity and such, instead of a boundless sea of possibility controlled by the whims of the Empress-Witch living as and at its heart. 

He remains silent for the rest of the day, pondering that knowledge, and you consider it your good deed of the millennia, having offered him a hint of what he will have to overcome, one day. 

  


* * *

  


On the fourth day, the boy breaks into song. 

“ _The Lone Lady sat, weeping o'er land, and sea and sky alike.”_

It starts like a hum, as he fights off the boredom and the dread and the crushing silence. He's tried to talk to you, before, to ask questions and start off a conversation. You have nothing to tell him, though, so you reply in short, clipped sentences and let his voice be swallowed by the awkward silences that spread between you like gaping chasms. 

“ _She held in her hand, the truth and the spear, swiftly the judgment comes...”_

When you don't tell him to shut up, his humming becomes more eloquent, sounds catching and dragging, forming half-words that carry on the rhythm if not the lyrics of an old folk song. 

“ _Oh now, darkn'ss rolls, devouring souls unaware...”_

There's something sad about it, that you can't quite place, and the thought sits alien and strange in the back of your mind, not quite triggering the gold bands on your body to constrict you back into sedate compliance. 

“ _Yield, now, for kings and beggars, all shall repay their dues...”_

He's a very strange sacrifice, you think, wondering absently if your Mistress will find him lacking because of it. You have been doing this for so long you know exactly how it is meant to go, after all. 

“ _The sun burns all, in violet and gold, glimmerin' death from above...”_

Sacrifices sit in silence, absorbed by the thought of their own mortality or praying to the false gods that appeared on land when trolls decided they couldn't handle serving only the Empress anymore. They are all solemn and quiet and determined, looking at you with either scorn or wariness, as the literal vehicle of their fate. Sacrifices do not fidget with the ruffles of their clothes or lean on to look at the horizon over the edge of the boat. They don't trace their claws along the swirls on the wood and they don't keep trying to reach out to you. 

“ _For those who'd know better yet still pretend not, comes the Ferryman's wrath.”_

And none of them, as far back as you can remember, ever _sang_. 

“ _Oh now, darkn'ss rolls, devouring souls unaware... Yield, now, for kings and beggars, all shall repay their dues...”_

It's a strangely melodic sound, his voice, rough around the edges, like he's allowing himself to sing out loud for the first time in his life. It's not unpleasant, but it is certainly different from the songs the Empress sings, when she sits in the middle of her coral garden and you're expected to brush and tend to her hair. Her songs are vicious and terrible and otherworldly. Compared to that, the boy's singing is strangely well suited to the echo of waves and the deceptive quiet of the ocean around you. 

“ _Fear not for your soul, bear your heart to the knife, it’s mercy to spare you the trial...”_

The thought of enjoying his voice begins to form, as you realize your starring role in the song's story, but the rings on your skin tighten uncomfortably at it, and you remind yourself, sternly, that what you like doesn't matter. 

_"Turn your bones into foam, your tears to storm, and on the Ferryman goes..."_

Nothing really matters, at this point. 

“ _Oh now, darkn'ss rolls, devouring souls unaware... Yield, now, for kings and beggars, all shall repay their dues...”_

  


* * *

  


“I'm the Ferryman,” you tell him, on the fifth day, as he tries to offer you some of the bread he smuggled within the ruffles of his skirt. 

You've seen sacrifices smuggle weapons before, but not food. The boat has a complex and ancient stasis spell cast into it – you remember, vaguely, that you had something to do with that, but you're not a sorcerer, there is no magic in you but the one your Mistress has given you, so you shove away the strange memory whenever it begins to nag – one that effectively preserves the sacrifices during their journey. The Empress' Hall is a long ways away, after all, and it would be inconvenient if they were to die of thirst or hunger or heat. 

He doesn't need to eat, is the point. He shouldn't be hungry, and he shouldn't be offering to share his meal with you. 

“You've mentioned that,” he says, a little dry, and you get the impression he is frustrated with you. Given than all you've done is tow him nonstop for the past few days, you're not entirely sure why. “But that's not what I asked. I said, do you want a bite?” He frowns, leaning over the bow of the ship, fearlessly, to better look at you. “I mean, you've been swimming nonstop since we started. It looks tiresome. Aren't you hungry or something?” 

“I am the Ferryman,” you repeat, very purposely not looking at him in the eyes – there's something strange and bizarre in them, when he looks at you, but you can't remember the name of it. “I do not tire, I do not hunger. I only serve.” 

“Uh huh,” he replies, clearly not convinced. “Whatever keeps you going, I guess.” 

But he settles back into the bench, and munches on his bread in silence after that. 

  


* * *

  


On the seventh day, while he sleeps safe on the bench of the tiny boat, you break through the barrier that keeps the continent's sea and the Empress' ocean separate – and something else, you don't quite think, because the golden rings tighten as soon as you begin to, but you're almost certain there was another reason for the barrier that you can't quite place, something to do with you and your task – and a kraken attacks you. The boy cries out in fear as the giant tentacles splash on the water, trying to catch the boat and break it in half. You swim away, though, back bowed and tail coiling furiously, until it's been left behind somewhat. And then shrug off the rings on your shoulders and uncoil the wings snuggly wrapped around your tail. The boy stares as you raise off the water, wings flapping rhythmically as they carry your weight like it's nothing. 

“Cover your ears,” you tell him, as he takes in the sheer size of you he couldn't see, while you were half hidden in the surf, and then you open your mouth in prayer to your Mistress, and a screech of furious outrage echoes out your throat in return. 

The bands of gold that bind you to her service glint ominously and she blesses your hand with a trident, a symbol of her will. You screech again, soaring through the air to circle the kraken that warbles a much weaker note, and steel yourself on reflex for the fight, even though your heart withered away too long ago to still care the harm it'll bring to the beast's owner, when you kill it. Or even remember why you'd care about such a thing in the first place. The power hums between your horns, flowing along your veins, and the golden rings on your arms and your fins and your wings and your tail, they crush all that is unworthy and you don't even notice. 

You don't remember ever not serving the one you serve, is the thing, and set to work with ruthless efficiency even as your body bends and twists to better suit the task at hand. 

  


* * *

  


“Please stop,” the boy says, on the thirtieth night, as you grunt with effort and shrug the rings back onto your shoulders. 

“You're a little late, to beg for mercy,” You taunt, smirking to ignore the pain of your jaw setting itself back in place into your mouth. 

“Your... wing,” he says, instead, staring at you over the rim of the boat, “it's broken.” 

“I don't need my wings to swim,” you inform him, baring your needle-like teeth in what you hope is a threatening display. 

He doesn't back down. 

“But you need them to fight,” he argues back, frown pulling at his face as he glares at you like you're a dimwitted shrimp. “And I'm getting the feeling the fights are just gonna get worse, from here on, right? More often? I can... help.” 

When you just stare at him, something cracks, loud and unheard, in his face, and you get the feeling you're seeing him for the very first time. Him, and not the worthy sacrifice to bargain for your Empress' good will. His frustration leaks into his face as he snarls. 

“I've been sitting on this fucking boat for _weeks_ now, while you go out there and get chewed on and spat out by the monster of the day, sometimes the monster of the hour!” He hunches over, defensive. “I can't fight for shit, but I'm...” He swallows hard. “I'm a healer. I can fix you.” 

“I don't need anything from you,” you reply, hunching back yourself, because the thought that you'd need help makes you feel weak, and the gold wrapped on your skin starts to burn and dig into the flesh on reflex. “I'm the Empress' Ferryman, I can damn well get you where you have to be, on my own.” 

Something twitches, in your head, a long forgotten memory of when the gold was fresh on your skin and the wings and the claws were new as well. When you were soft and afraid, and every time you cried and felt weak, the gold would hum and dig in, punishing you for not being worthy. It has been millennia now, though. You are worthy, now. You became strong to please your Empress, and you know your place at her feet, serving her with the gracious gifts she saw fit to give you. 

“But _I_ need _you_ , you shithead!” He snarls in frustration, reaching out to grab your head in his hands. You are too startled by the fact he would actually, willingly _touch_ you, to twist out of the hold at once. “I can't swim for shit and we're in the middle of the ocean, and _no one told me the fucking ocean itself was going to try and stop me_ from doing this ludicrous self-sacrificing shit I've been prepping for my whole damn life!” 

He keeps one hand on your face, anchored there as he pulls back the other to his mouth. He bites onto his palm, and you notice, from up close, that his palm is scarred over, shiny like the bits of your back that didn't mend properly. But then he's smearing his blood – such a bright red you've only ever seen in the fiery corals that serve as throne for your Empress, curling up into a twisted snare of red and sharp points – over your forehead and pressing his on yours. 

You try to pull back, then, because he smells of thunderstorms and fire, magic coiling under his skin, but you're not fast enough. He calls on that magic that makes his blood so special, but the moment it tries to flow into you, it clashes into the old pool of might your Empress has breathed into you over the centuries. Her magic is woven into your very being, the form you were given to best serve her – _I want to be strong_ , you remember a small, broken voice screaming into the sea as a storm tore through the island and left nothing in its wake, _I want to never be weak again!_ \- and it recoils in outrage when the boy's magic tries to seep into it. 

You screech then, with your own voice and your own suffering, as your body feels like it's falling apart from the strain, and the last thing you remember, before you sink under the waves, is those wide, scarlet eyes, staring at you in horrified surprise. 

  


* * *

  


“I mean you no harm. I came for him, only. Please, it's better this way.” 

The voice is melodious, curling and soft, and it brings with it the sound of the waves making music in the heart of a storm. It's familiar, and something inside you burns with a memory that will not come, no matter how much you strain to reach it. Your eyes snap open as you realize you're sprawled on the boat, tail awkwardly coiled on the bow ornament and the rest of your considerable bulk lying along the length of the floor. The boy is standing over you, arms spread wide as if he could shield you from the creature sitting comfortably on a soft-looking cloud above you both. 

“Fuck off,” the boy says, eloquent, and the creature, whose name you remember but can't push off those last two inches off your throat into your tongue, smiles sadly. 

“He was mine, you know,” she says, eyes a bright fuchsia that still pales in comparison to the depths of your Empress' and hair a long, curly mess falling over her shoulders and getting lost into the foam-like cloud that conceals the rest of her. “In the beginning. He was mine and I failed him. He should have died then, but instead the Empress found him and I failed him again, when she turned him into... this.” Her voice hardens, letting through a shadow of steel that echoes the weight of the Empress' so perfectly something inside you quivers with memories that are no longer yours to command. “He should have never been left to become this. Please, step aside, I have no quarrel with you. I'll send you home after it's done, it will be alright.” 

“I need to see the Empress,” the boy says, chin tilted up. “My people need her blessing. And he's the Empress' Ferryman. So kindly fuck off, and leave us alone.” 

She looks sad, for a moment, and you take your chance to spring forth, claws extended. Your wing is still broken, but you have to protect the sacrifice. You have to take it – _him_ – back to the Empress. It's your job. It's what you exist for. So you screech at her, gold burning into your skin as the memories fade a little more and you're consumed with the need to _serve_. 

“Oh, Eridan,” she says, raising her hands and causing you to slam face first into a wall of howling wind, “it was never meant to be like this.” The boy screams as you burn with purpose and flap your wings angryly, ignoring the white hot pain that should have sent you back into unconsciousness already. “The Empress must die, like she was meant to.” 

“You can't kill the Empress,” you snarl at her, feeling your body twist and turn as Her power flows into you, tears you down and builds you up better, stronger. Bone splinters and hide thickens, as you turn into a nightmare of claws and fangs that exists solely to serve your Mistress. “The Empress is eternal, like the ocean.” 

“The Empress is a troll,” the vision of fury and rainstorms snaps back, and your trident finds itself entwined with hers, the clatter echoing like thunder across the clouds. “And trolls die.” She looks tired and ancient, and the memories burn with frenzy again, even if they never really reach you, caught in a fine web of magic and purpose you barely remember is there. “You used to tell me that. Over and over again, whenever I felt like I wanted to give up.” 

She twists her trident with more ease than you, and her strength overpowers you and sends you crashing down into the waves. You take a moment to feel the gold on your arms and fins and tail hum in sympathy with the ocean and its power, feeling alert and in full control of yourself again. Then you soar up into the sky, broken wing dragging a little despite being wrought over by magic, but you're so full of purpose again you don't care. Your bones creak and eventually shatter, as you stand up, again and again, driven mad by the gold tightening its hold on your limbs, every time you feel your determination flagging. She remains untochable, cradled in the safety of the sky, not even flinching from the increasingly erratic blows you attempt to deal. 

Through the fog of desperate fighting, you feel something different. You don't quite know what the boy tried to do to you, but you feel... distant. Like his power drove a wedge between you and the comforting terror of your Mistress' might. Whatever it was, you feel your power waning for the first time since you became the Empress' favorite tool. Her power has always been yours to command, to carry you through against all odds and against her enemies – her enemy, singular, massive, overwhelming, perched on a cloud and tearing you apart with infinite sadness in her eyes – and her power has no end. It is you who is defective, _different_. 

The last blow sends you crashing into the boat, which splinters from the force. The boy yells profanity in a stream of hysterics as he clings for his dear life to the wreckage of the boat, and something inside you wants to laugh – and you remember, for the first time in forever, almost as in a dream, what laughter even is, despite the gold angrily cutting into your skin, leaving bleeding gashes you can't really ignore – because you're done for, you have failed your Mistress. You are too weak to defeat her enemy, and when you see the trident coming for you, you resist the urge to close your eyes as it ends. 

Except it doesn't, of course, because nothing could ever be so simple. 

There is a moment of silence as time crawls down to an absolute standstill and bright red blood splatters on your face. 

“ _A life for a life,_ ” the Empress told you, eons ago, when you were a scared child who didn't know his place, “ _but then, boy, who out there would give their life for yours?_ ” 

You remember, all of a sudden, with a clarity that terrifies you, as most of the gold on your skin melts off, leaving vivid wounds all over your body. You remember your name and your story, your life before the Empress and the servitude you endured because you were a stupid, stupid _child_. A life for a life, but this boy's wasn't the one intended. You screech as the curse is shattered, releasing with it the near infinite pool of magic that had been sealed in you for eternity. You scream and scream, claws digging into your scalp as the last remnants of the Ferryman melt into yourself. 

“I didn't mean to,” Feferi whispers, letting go of the trident still skewered neatly on the boy's body, whose blood is twisting and tainting the water and drenching his pristine clothes. She looks less like a goddess and more like the little girl you sold your soul for, all those lifetimes ago. “I didn't mean to, he just-” 

“So don't let him!” You snap, spitting blood along the words as you reach out and pluck the trident off his body, hissing in a panic. When all she does is shrink back and stare at you like you've grown a second head, you bare your teeth at her. “You're not her, you're supposed to be better than her. Don't build your Empire on the blood of innocents.” 

“You don't get to judge,” she snaps back, angry, and you should be afraid, now that the curse is broken and her power is growing exponentially by the second. You should be terrified, but you think you've died too many times now, to be scared. “Not after...” 

“I'm not the Empress,” you say, bitter and snide, even if you're strangely careful to cradle the boy's body in your arms. “I am not the Heiress. But I'm the only other who knows, so yes, it's my damn fucking right to judge, if you give up after all this time.” Your fingers find a pulse, weak and slowing, along his neck. The sheer shock of the blow sent the boy unconscious, and he is not far from dead. You stare at him, with knowledge and memories and self-hatred burning under your tongue and crowding between your ears. “We didn't choose this,” you add, voice thick as you swallow hard and cling to an impulse, and close your eyes as you press your forehead to his. “But we can't take it back, anymore, so just end it like you should have.” 

The wounds from the melted gold had already begun to close, but as you drain every bit of magic still clinging to your body – yours or the Empress, you don't rightly care anymore – and shove it all into the limp boy in your arms, the wounds tear open again, gaping wide and terrible. The pain would make you stop, normally. You were never big on pain, before. But you think of songs and questions and frustration, and you know you will not forgive yourself, for claiming your freedom at the expense of this foolish, stupid child whose only crime was _bravery_. 

When you feel you might not be strong enough to pull through – you've never been strong enough, ever – you feel a hand on your shoulder and power rushing through you, anchoring itself in you before allowing itself to flow into the boy. You open your eyes and find Feferi giving you a thin smile. 

“You're a hateful creature, Eridan Ampora,” she says, scowling lightly as she sets her eyes on the boy and his bloodless face, rather than you. “Even after all this time. I had forgotten how much I could despise you.” There's a pause, a slow, thoughtful deliberation before she adds: “For all I missed you.” 

“And I suppose you forgot you're meant to be better than her, as well,” you taunt, watching the rent flesh knitting itself back into shape with an ease that heralds all the terrible things that are to come. “Is that it?” 

She leans in to kiss your cheek as the boy finally heaves a sigh and sinks into sleep. Her eyes are dark and her expression not quite kind. You remember that you loved her, once, with the mad, endless passion that drove you to stupidity and disaster. You remember that you hated her, once, with angry, bitter frustration coiling in your gut and setting you up for even greater follies. But that was before, when you were a troll and the Empress was not a goddess yet. You find your bottled up emotions running rampant once more, and you don't really know what you should give into first, the anger, the relief or the sheer, all-consuming grief. 

“I will find you,” she tells you, raising back without really having to think about it, wrapped around in wind and thunderstorms, “when it's over.” 

“I'll be waiting,” you retort, clutching the sleeping boy gently, feeling his chest heave slowly with each breath. “Back home.” 

She leaves in a whirlwind of storm clouds and lightning that arches across the ocean and makes it rage with the strength of its fury. The ocean is dark, pulsing with hatred and the wrath of the Empress that can feel her own end coming, but you decide very purposefully not to care about it. 

You're half dead yourself, after all, bleeding and torn to the very core of your being, and home is so very far away that if you didn't have the boy in your arms, you'd allow yourself to sink below the waves and let whatever monstrosity still lives in its boiling depths make a morsel out of you. 

But you can't, not now, and so stubbornly, you go. 

  


* * *

  


“This is not the Empress' hall,” the boy says, staring at you with a cautious frown. 

If you weren't half convinced it'd cause you to expire, you'd laugh. Instead you shrug your shoulders lightly, refusing to move from the rock you've seen fit to sprawl all twenty feet of you. The sky is dark and pink, in turns, as the storm to end all storms crackles planet-wide and the earth shakes on reflex every minute or so. 

“No,” you say, when the boy keeps staring at you, as if expecting an answer. “It's not.” 

It's a testament of how old you are, how young he is, and how much trollkind has forgotten, than he puffs up indignantly, folding his arms over his chest, and completely ignores the fact the world is, for all intents and purposes, _ending_. 

“Why?” He demands, looking up at you like you've personally failed him, and if you didn't owe him so much, you would reach out and smack him for the abysmal lack of manners he's displaying. 

“Because,” you begin, considering your words carefully, “the Cycle is finally back on track. Sort of.” When he stares, uncomprehendingly, you sigh and turn around. “The world is ending and I'm going to take a nap,” you inform him, “if we're still alive when I wake up, I'll tell you why.” 

“But–” 

“Napping, now.” 

It's less of a nap and finally giving in to the exhaustion eating at your bones, having pushed yourself to wait until he woke to see if your first true feat of magic in an eon actually paid off, or if you managed to screw it up as well. He looks fine, though. Confused and nervous and snappy, but fine. _Fine_. You're unconscious before he can think up a suitable rebuttal, body slumped into the rock as bloodloss and shock and madness all swoop down at once and knock you back closer to death than you'd ever willingly admit. 

You wonder if the fight will end, before you wake up, if the boy will have to make do with no answers after all. 

  


* * *

  


“The Imperial Lusus died, one day,” you explain, even though the boy – whose name you haven't asked, because you owe him your life and to ask for his name would be grossly inappropriate after all he's done for you – has no idea what a lusus even is, “but her power remained. Power to create and power to destroy, it was wild and terrifying, so the Empress, who mourned for her lusus but would not see the world end over her grief, reached out and sealed that power within herself. And thus the Cycle began, thousands upon thousands of sweeps ago. An Empress on the throne, to keep that power in check, who withers and dims as a Heiress is born out of foam and hope, and raised to take her place, growing strong and wise enough to shoulder her burden, and continue the chain. Most Heiress chose to mercy kill their predecessors, if only to spare them the long drawn out death. Your people don't remember this, though, because the Cycle hasn't been followed properly for eons now.” 

You stare at the sky, still pink and black, with a ghost of green in it, lightning and gales tearing up the clouds and drawing angry lines across the vastness of it. With the curse that bound you to the Empress broken, Feferi is sure to have the upper hand in the end, but the Empress has gained much power, over the centuries you served her, feeding her souls to grow stronger and stronger, and she is a mighty foe. You should feel guilty, for your hand in that mess – a mess you started, after all – but instead you just feel sad. 

“Because an Empress decided she would not die, that she would not give up power quietly like she was meant to. She wanted to live, because she was most of all scared of death.” You remember her, before the servitude and the endless coil of hatred pulsing in your gut. How frail she looked, when Feferi walked up the steps of the palace, head held high and expression serene, ready to accept her destiny. And before that, when you were dumb and impressionable and your Ancestor shoved you into the throne room and told you to bow... “She tried to have her Heiress killed, first, and when that failed...” 

The stench returns, a vivid memory you have not missed one bit. The stench of burnt flesh as the smoking crater of what was once the Capital glowed with the aftertaste of the spell. Not one wall left standing, not a single troll still breathing, except you, hiding behind Feferi, cowering behind the Heiress that stared in horror and didn't move. Didn't scream. Didn't throw herself at the fight and ended it when she could. 

“She slaughtered her people to balance her power with the Heiress, to tilt the scales back to her favor. Life is the most sacred bit of magic you can find in the world, given willingly or unwillingly, life _is_ power, and she took thousands that night. Understand, the Heiress was not meant to fight an equal, and on even ground, having broken all taboos, the Empress won the duel.” 

The boy listens avidly to your story, sitting on the sand below the rock you've chosen as a perch. Every now and then, his eyes shift, trailing over your arms and your tail and your wings, broken and misshapen now, bleeding where the gold melted off and left deep, angry gashes all over your scales. Wounds that, unlike before, refuse to heal up on their own. You feel empty, bereft of all power, and as the Empress fights and slowly loses ground against Feferi, you can feel your own end looming along the inevitable conclusion of that battle. 

“I betrayed the Empress, when I was your age,” you go on, reminiscing with a tiny, sad smile. “My Ancestor served her court, like all those of my caste did in those days. Seadwellers were the highest of the high, the only ones allowed to see the Empress in all her glory. I was raised and groomed to serve, and then the Heiress was hatched, when I was ten, and my Ancestor took me to the Empress to be given my first task. I thought I was to be an advisor or a guardian, a cornerstone of the future Empress' reign.” Your smile turns bitter and you flick your tail, annoyed at your own naivete. “Instead, the Empress told me to find the Heiress, and kill her.” The boy gasps, eyes wide. And you chuckle at him, lying down onto your side, cradling your broken wing against your hip. “I did find her, a little thing barely worth mentioning. But she smiled at me, and I knew then I wouldn't be able to kill her. So I swore myself to her, swore on blood and betrayal of everything I ever knew, and spirited her away to where the Empress' assassins couldn't find her. I spent a decade looking after her. Loving her.” The words taste sour on your tongue, and you wish to take them back, you wish to hide away from the truth but once started, you dare not stop your confession mid-way. “I helped her prepare, best as I could. I learned magic for her. I killed for her. And on that night, when the Capital burned and all seadwellers died and became raw might for the Empress to wield, I ran away with her. She should have stayed. She should have fought. The Heiress is meant to win, the power flows from the Empress to her, inevitable, like the flow of a river and the passage of time. But I feared for her, and my fear echoed in her, and we ran, instead.” 

You remember, swimming and then flying, though you can't remember who conjured the storm that lead you away. You remember Feferi crying, mourning for the dead, for her failure, for you. 

“We thought we could wait it out, you see. Power flows, inexorable, like time. Eventually, the Empress would have died and the Heiress would win without having to fight. But the Empress didn't stop with the Capital. She burned the continent to the ground, ate the souls of as many trolls as she could find, fighting the tilt in the balance, trying to find a way to strike the decisive blow. And the Heiress kept fighting, trying, and each time she grieved for those who died and fear won out. My fear won out. I was scared. I wanted it all to end. I was scared and I lashed out, and I said many things one shouldn't say, to anyone really, but least of all to a Heiress. I left her, alone in this shore, thousands of sweeps ago, and I went to find the Empress. I was _scared_. And I wanted it to end. And I dared try to hurt her, try to kill her myself. I was dumb and young and stupid, and it seemed all so simple, really. She just had to _die_.” 

The boy reaches out a hand, tentatively, to stroke one of the fins on your tail, the one closest to him. You startle and realize you're crying, and it's new and wrenchingly sad, and you want to shut up and swallow back all the words wrapped around your sins, but you've said so much already, you might as well see it through. 

“But she didn't die,” the boy says, softly, eyes unbearably kind, and you remember with a jolt that he laid down his life for _you_. You, who caused this mess in the first place. 

“No,” you say, smiling wetly as you pretend bravely you are not, in fact, crying. “She did not. She recognized me, though. I thought she would kill me, then. Eat me like she'd eaten all my brethren before, but she smiled instead. Understand, I was the last seadweller in the world. There's power in that, and oh, the Empress knew and cared only about power. So she cursed me, forced me to serve her and marked me with gold that wouldn't let me forget my place, so that I'd never disobey her again. And with that curse she anchored the Cycle and froze it in place. I was to be the dam that kept the flow still. She would have wanted for me to serve as a tool reverse for the Cycle, to suck her lost power back, but it didn't work like she wanted to, so instead it evened out. Half to her, half to the Heiress, in perpetual balance, for all eternity. But she put a loophole in the curse, a failsafe of sorts. I would have to serve her, until someone laid down their life for me. And who would, really, if not the Heiress? She loved me, then, still. Just a bit. Just _enough_. The Cycle was warped, but not broken, and the mockery of life your people live began, with the Empress demanding sacrifice and keeping her people in place, broken and servile, offering souls to make her power grow and help her mad quest to break the Cycle all together. And the Heiress in the shadows, growing stronger, parallel to the Empress, equal in all things except her cruelty, trying to find a way around the mess I'd made trying to fix things. At some point, the Heiress used all her power to separate the land from the sea, to try and cut the Empress off her source of power. The Empress had tired of me by then, and decided to make me useful. She turned me into _this_ , into a symbol of spite and hatred for your people, to make sure no one, ever, would feel the need to offer me anything other than scorn. And then she sent me as an envoy to your people, to steal away souls through the cracks on the Heiress' seal. For centuries it went on like that, with trolls forgetting who they were and what they came from, scattered and lost with only the Empress' empty promises to give them hope.” 

You rest your chin on your hands and look down at him. His gown has been torn in places, and it hangs awkwardly on his frame, not quite hiding the strength of his shoulders or the width of his back anymore. He looks less like an offering, and more like a survivor. And of course, the bloodstains are dry, now, caked on the fabric and making it sag. 

“And then you came along,” you say, smiling fondly, “and stupidly, irrationally threw your life away. The curse is broken, now. The Cycle is turning again, and the Heiress will be victorious, this time around. Far too many have died, for her not to. It's not in her nature to allow herself defeat, not after all trollkind has paid for our mistakes.” 

The boy sits in silence, then, fingers absently running along the spine of that fin, brow furrowed and expression thoughtful. 

“Did I...” he begins, reconsiders, swallows hard and then looks up, staring at you poignantly, “did I bring about the end of the world? By trying to save you? Is that it?” 

“Your sacrifice did; impulsive, stupid, glorious thing it was,” you correct, lips twisted into a wry smile and fangs peeking between your lips. “Only, it's okay, I reckon. The world has ended before, and it always somehow bounces back anyway. It'll be fine.” 

“But I'm not dead,” he says, a little helpless, and the hand not touching your tail reaches out to press against his chest, where the trident went right through him and where he now has three circular, shiny scars to show for it. 

“No,” you reply, and sit up enough to loom somewhat. He isn't small, by any means, but you were made to be a monster, to fill troll's day terrors with visions of winged demons that would snatch them away into the dark. “I would not allow it. Not after what you did. It would be... it wouldn't be _fair_.” 

“Fair,” he repeats, almost deadpan, and above your heads the sky shrieks in black and pink. “ _Fair_.” 

“I could never resist a well placed irony,” you shrug, unrepentant, and the smile once more hanging off your mouth. 

“Let me tell you something about _fair_ ,” he snaps, throwing a handful of sand in your general direction. “I was groomed to _die_. From the moment I hatched, to the moment I sat in that fucking stupid little boat. I was meant to die. I was meant to buy the Empress' good will. That the Empress doesn't have one licking shade of it, didn't matter. They knew that. They still sent me. _I was meant to die_.” He laughs, sound off-key and slightly terrifying, as he presses his hands into his hair. “And now I've died only not, the world is ending and it's apparently it's my fault but you're making it sound like it's a _good_ thing. And you're telling me all this, and I just. I don't understand _why_.” He buries his face into his hands and his shoulders heave a little, before he peeks at you between his fingers. “I'm going to hyperventilate and have a meltdown too, probably.” 

“It's alright,” you say, after a long moment when he fails to utterly implode on command. “At this point, I think we've all earned it.” 

Absurdly, he laughs. After a moment, you echo the sound, rusty and unused, as you sit together on the shore and watch the world be ripped apart by the Empress and the Heiress. 

  


* * *

  


“You're not healing.” 

He's... adapted well, to the island. Then again, this was once an island you thought worthy of serving as home for the future Empress of Alternia and all its Colonies, so you suppose it's to be expected. There's fruit hanging low from the trees dotted around the place, and the fish in the inner lake are fat and placid enough to catch with his bare hands. This was paradise, as close as you could make it, so many sweeps ago, when you were young and dumb and still didn't know how to be bitter, and some of that sweetness still lingers in the air, even if the battle rages on. Nonetheless, the boy has adapted well to life here, as the nights melt into weeks, and still the world rages on, storms and earthquakes that threaten to tear it all apart. You did not expect the fight to be over swiftly, but you can tell how antsy and impatient the boy has become, as things refuse to come to a head just yet. 

You've taken to tell him stories, in the meantime, to give him something to do, even if it's just listen to the sound of your voice, and to let you flex the torpid muscles of your memory. Knowledge opens like a vast, bottomless pit in the back of your head, centuries upon centuries of your own deeds – through not truly yours, not conscious or thought-out – piled on top of all that you hoarded in hopes of helping Feferi claim her hatchright. History feels less like a sacred, hallowed thing you once revered, and more like a personal account of all your failures, these days. But nonetheless, the boy listens. 

It's just that he watches, as well. 

“Aren't I?” You ask, pretending not to know what he means, even though you wane a little more each night, and the open sores on your scales pulse with hot, irritating pain when you're not busy enough to ignore them. “I hadn't noticed.” 

You're not a troll, is the thing. You haven't been a troll in a very, very long time. It's not just a matter of your shape being torn and rearranged to suit the Empress' fancy. You're a creature fundamentally made of, and sustained by, magic. Your own and the Empress'. Your own talents were carefully honed, before the Empress' betrayal, but you exhausted ever last bit of them, pouring onto the boy to keep him alive. And the last remnants of the Empress' power is slowly being siphoned out of you, as the battle approaches its climax. Your body makes no sense, biologically speaking. You were not a creature evolved over eons into your current form. You were crafted to suit the Empress' needs, feral and terrifying, and that you made no sense never mattered, because _you didn't need to_. You had no wants and no needs of your own, beyond your perpetual servitude. Magic nourished you and kept you whole. When the monstrosities Feferi sent to try and stop you from completing your missions tore you in half and bled you onto the ocean, magic leaked out of your very pores and knit your flesh back together. You have wings and fins and blood and fangs and claws, because it suited the Empress that you did. Because she thought you should. 

And now the curse that bound you to her and carved a well into your soul for her to store her power has been broken, but the spell that turned you into the nightmare you are has not been reversed. Cannot rightly be reversed, you think, with clarity that leaves you empty inside, resigned to your fate. You're starving, slowly, for all there is food all around the island, and the boy continues to offer you a share of his daily haul, despite your refusal every time. You need magic to sustain you, but you know very well that you will not find it. Feferi will not claim you for herself, like the Empress did before her. If nothing else because you will not let her. And who besides the Empress has enough magic to sustain you? 

You knew what you were doing, when you gave your power to the boy, for all you weren't quite certain of the consequences. 

But it's not too bad, you reckon, to let yourself end this way. You became the symbol of an era that will end along the Empress, and there's nothing left for you, after Feferi's victory. You will not be a Lord, because the Empire lies in shambles, reduced to towns pretending to be cities and a handful of trolls who know nothing of the glorious legacy of the Alternia of old. 

You are the Herald of the Empress, the Ferryman that collected payment for a debt no troll even remembers anymore, the Terror that drove trolls back into the stone age, over and over again, because it suited the Empress to see them brought low. You are death and destruction, and all those things Feferi hated and wished gone. 

The boy stares at you with a scowl, and for a moment you wonder if he'll argue with you. He's a delightful creature, and you think so not only because you owe him your freedom. He's fierce and stubborn and so very angry with the world at large in a way that keenly reminds you of Feferi's vows to end the suffering of her people. Beneath the demure, solemn quiet that took your hand and allowed you to sit him in the boat, there is a steel determination and a deliciously filthy mouth that rants and raves and refuses to stop pouring words out into the world. He questions and argues and demands answers for everything, and you think, with a strange sort of disconnected sadness, that you would have loved him so much, if only you had met him when you still had the ability to do so. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he snarls, sullen and unamused as he sits on the sand and leans back against the rock you've chosen for a perch, “have it your way.” 

You smile faintly and lie down to rest your head on your arms, wishing above all else that you could sleep. 

“I always do,” you lie, and find yourself hoping he will somehow avoid seeing you die. 

  


* * *

  


You can tell the precise moment Feferi strikes the final blow. 

To be fair, so can the rest of the planet, if only because the near season-long storm stops and clears up abruptly, the sea folding back into a tranquil swing of waves that's almost mellow. But you know it, beyond the peace that seems to bleed into the world all at once, by the feeling of your bones melting into nothing beneath your skin. You were waiting for it, so you weren't expecting to greet Death so dramatically, but as the pain washes over you as the last of the magic holding you together vanishes, you throw your head back and screech as your claws dig into the stone under them. 

The boy rushes to you, feet sinking into the sand as you roll off your perch, writhing as you feel yourself be consumed from the inside out, and the touch of his hands on you make the pitch of your screams raise impossibly as somehow the pain is made _worse_. The still festering wounds slowly widen, growing deeper, digging through muscle to reach bone. Through the fog of soul-crushing pain, you hear Feferi's voice, awash with sadness, and you tilt your head to see her one last time, her destiny fulfilled. 

She looks disappointingly the same as you remember, from before. Even the clothes are the same, colorful and simple, for all her sign is a bold statement in fuchsia on her chest. But there is a glow to her, a shimmer wrapped around her skin that hums with enough power to split the world in half, if she wanted. You scream again, feeling your entire being cave in, and you think, irrationally, that if you can just hold onto it, power through it, there will be quiet on the other side. Feferi and the boy fade from your awareness, even as he cradles you in his arms desperately and Feferi's eyes stare at you with something almost like sorrow. 

_The Empress is dead_ , you think, just before the end, fading around the edges, both in body and mind. _Long live the Empress_. 

_And good fucking riddance for us all._

  


* * *

  


You bolt awake abruptly, flung back into existence all of a sudden. 

“What the–“ 

The world falls into place around you, a cacophony of sound – the ocean's waves, the wind rustling through the trees, the imperceptibly loud sound of reality itself – and color – the white sand under your claws, the twin moons hovering high above the sky, like mismatched eyes judging you personally – and the irrefutable pulse of life coursing through your veins. You look down at yourself, scarred and oddly... less than you remember, but undeniably whole. 

_Alive._

A familiar, melodious giggle makes you turn your head towards its source, and you find Feferi, still just Feferi for all she glows with otherworldly power just barely hidden under her skin, and the boy, wide eyes bright and hopeful, and for a moment all you can do is stare incredulously, too shocked to even begin deciding whether you're grateful or furious for their obvious meddling. 

“What the fuck?” You demand, wings unfurling at your sides to help your balance as you try to loom and find yourself some eight feet short of your usual length. 

Feferi raises her hands, as if you could really have a hope in hell of hurting her now. As if anything in the whole damn world could even try to stand against her without ending a smear on the sole of her feet. The boy smirks, a ridiculous mixture of smug and delighted that makes your anger wobble and stumble. 

“Now we're even, shithead,” he says, irresistibly pleased with himself for something you're barely starting to understand, “it was only _fair_.” 

You bury your face into your hands as you laugh, if only because the last remnants of your pride will not allow yourself to cry. 

  


* * *

  


“I gave you as much as I could,” Feferi tells you, as the boy sleeps safe inside a nearby cave that once served as her hive, eons prior. 

High in the sky, the sun burns bright but your hide is thick and soaks up the warmth almost like a gift. As for her, for all she looks like a troll, it would take much more than blistering sunlight to even begin making a dent into what she's become. 

“Why?” You flex your fingers, one by one, feeling the pulse of power within them, power free of tethers, solely yours to command. You sneer self-deprecatingly as you look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You should know by now, that me and power do not end well.” 

“That was then,” Feferi replies, voice hard enough that you hear and echo of the Empress... former Empress, in it. “This is now.” She sighs before coming to sit next to you, staring at the flecks of light reflecting on the surface of the ocean. “You told me not to build my Empire on the blood of innocents.” 

“You are nowhere near deluded enough to think I count as one of those,” you sneer, digging your claws into the sand as the tip of your tail swishes irritably from side to side. “Not after all I've done.” 

“No,” and the expected pang of pain at her admission never comes, even if her voice is slightly vicious as she gives you a measuring stare. Feferi turns her head towards the depths of the cave, expression softening by degrees. “But he is.” You follow her gaze to the rough shape of a boy softly snoring away without a care in the world. “He almost killed himself, trying to save you.” 

You can see it, perfectly, in your mind's eye. Though you have not known him long, that is exactly the kind of stupid, reckless, noble thing he would do. You're surprised by the fond smile tugging at your lips as you nod. It fades as you realize Feferi is narrowing her eyes at you. Eons of hurt and guilt and regrets stretch between you, now, and you doubt you'll ever look at each other again with anything other than vague contempt. 

“I wanted you dead,” she tells you, candidly sincere, and you shrug in return, for lack of any actual remorse. You deserved to die, you should have died. But you didn't, and now you're not sure you're ready to scorn the life you've been granted. “Perhaps it's selfish of me, perhaps you really are every bit as despicable as I've convinced myself you were. He saw something worth saving, twice.” 

“He's a fool,” you say, and smirk when she bristles, resting your hands on the sand and leaning your weight back on them. “But what's done is done, isn't it?” 

“No, Eridan,” Feferi says, standing up and brushing sand off her skirt. Her hair is longer than you remember, but still nowhere near as massive as the Empress'... former Empress'. “What's done is the beginning, what matters now is where we go now. What we do with the life we've been given.” She swallows hard, squaring her shoulders, and her very being hums softly with power that should terrify you and yet doesn't, not really. “The Empire I was promised is gone, you laid waste to the bits she didn't, after all, but I'm still the Empress. And even in ruins, the Empire is still mine.” 

“All hail the Empress,” you murmur sardonically, performing the best mockery of a bow your body will allow. 

Feferi gives you a withering glare, before turning back to the horizon, standing tall. 

“The time of ruin is over, now...” She sighs, hands slowly closing into fists. “Now, we rebuild.” 

“We?” 

“I know you,” she says, smirking at you in a way that breaks your heart twice over, with how much you remember loving her and how much you _don't_ anymore. “Oh, how I wished I didn't, every time you set the world aflame just because she asked, but _I know you_. Life without purpose isn't life for you.” Her expression grows slightly vacant as she glances back to the depths of the cave again. “I have no illusions you'd choose me as your purpose, not after how that ended, last time. But him? Him you'll follow to the end of the world and beyond.” 

“Him, not you,” you agree, because Feferi was always the one you could never lie to, no matter how much you wanted to, and there's no point in trying when you both know it's the truth. 

“He's made his choice,” she informs you, expression hopeful despite her best attempts to make it smug. You want to hug her and tear her apart with your claws, all at once. Instead you nod slowly. “While you were... recovering. He made _demands_ of me,” she adds, laughing softly. “And then he made his choice.” 

“I hope you will not regret this,” you say, looking at your hands and yourself, once more taking stock of what you've become. Certain now that the power pulsing like a heartbeat within your chest has been relinquished entirely to you – yours, yours, _yours_ – you squint until bands of silver dotted with dark amethysts the exact shade of your eyes spring into being around your wrists and fingers and horns, hiding the scars beneath, while a small army of matching hoops find themselves hanging off your fins. It's such a selfish, vain thing to do, you can't help but smirk in the face of Feferi's disapproving glare. “That you left behind a witness, Feferi Peixes, who knows who you are and where you came from, what you've done and what you promised.” 

“How could I regret it?” She taunts back, sneering just like you taught her how, “to have a constant reminder of what happens if I fuck this up?” 

You spread your hands wide and bow your head, not breaking eye contact. 

“Well, I do live to serve,” you taunt, and laugh when she vanishes into a whisper of sea breeze without another word. 

  


* * *

  


“Karkat.” 

You look up from the boat you've just conjured into existence, to find the boy dressed in a freshly magicked set of ruffles that distinctly reminds you of what he was wearing when you met him for the first time. He's grown good at channeling the Empress' power for his own designs, and you can't honestly say it's all due to your best attempts to teach him how. He's got a talent for it, and part of you is irrationally jealous of him, as you wonder what's it like to serve by choice. To be kept whole, even as you serve. Nonetheless, you drown the feeling with sheer pride in his accomplishments and the unflinching certainly that he will excel at this duty in ways you never could. 

He offers you a hand, jaw set and eyes intent. You stare at his palm because you do not trust yourself to not say something unwise under that stare. 

“What?” You manage, shifting so you're facing him properly. 

“My name's Karkat,” he says, arching both eyebrows and raising his hand a little, as if to entice you to take it. “I know, I know. Names are important and trolls are fucking inbred idiots for sharing them nilly willy all the time, but _fuck that_ , okay? If we're really gonna do this... thing, you and I... well shit, I think we're at the point where we can be on a first name basis with each other, right?” 

You take one breath. Then another. Then you clasp your hand – larger, longer, claw-tipped, _monstrous_ hand – around his, soaking up the warmth of his skin as you smirk. 

“Yeah,” you say, knowing in your heart of hearts that he's owned you long before and will continue to do so for as long as you still live. “Yeah, we are.” Your smirk melts into a smile, despite your best intentions, and you feel your shoulders relax for the first time in forever. “I'm Eridan.” 

Karkat grins, teasing, and you feel the chains close in on you with such finality you should be afraid. Instead, there's only relief. 

_Life without purpose isn't life for you._

“What kind of name is Eridan, anyway?” 

You spread your wings mock threateningly as you tug him forward into your arms. 

“A royal one,” you snap, wiggling your eyebrows as you tilt him back dramatically. 

“Yeah,” he deadpans, shoving you away with a snort. “A royal pain in the ass, more like.” He shakes his head, but the smile remains as you let him go without protest. “But better than just 'shithead', I guess.” 

“Brat,” you say, watching him stomp into the boat with confidence you yearn for sometimes. “Ready?” 

Karkat takes his seat and arranges his skirts purposefully as he licks his lips. Then he nods. 

“Yeah,” he looks at you with hope, and you don't think the feeling will ever wear off its welcome. “Let's go give those assholes hell.” 

You laugh as you call forth the gale, silver glinting on your skin. 

“Spoken like a true diplomat, my dear.” 

In the next heartbeat, you're gone. 


End file.
